


the weight of destiny

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:11:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mizoguchi pauses and looks back at the young man on his knees, fists clenched, a sharp, bitter fury burning in his eyes. He has never seen Oikawa like this, has never seen Oikawa fight for any reason but the whims of the gods, for prophecy, fame, glory. He has never seen Oikawa burn this bright.“And tomorrow, I kill him.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written before all the other fics ive posted, and i'd like to think i've grown considerably as a writer since, but it is still the one fic i have wanted, above everything else, to write in a way i could be proud of. the second draft is in the works, but i do not know if i will ever write fic again, so here we are.
> 
> (to b — thank you, and i am sorry. i hope you take this as no slight against you.)

_no man or woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny._

**the iliad – homer**

.

.

.

.

.

**i;**

“Who does Mizoguchi think he is?” Oikawa snaps, pacing around the tent. “I am Oikawa Tooru, son of Thetis and Peleus, the greatest warrior of our generation. Any other commander would give up all they own to have me, and yet he wants _me_ to join a regular old infantry group and march to battle in the midst of nobodies?”

“Oikawa, calm down,” Iwaizumi replies, seated on the ground in front of him, polishing his sword. “He’s not trying to offend you. It’s because you’re the strongest soldier on our side that we can’t have you lead the vanguard. It’s too great of a risk to take. And if you come from the middle, you’ll take them by surprise. They’re probably expecting you to be at some place of prominence, so if you aren’t, they’ll think you’re not there.”

“But Kageyama!” Oikawa whirls around, face red and eyes flashing. “Of all people, he had to put Kageyama Tobio where I should be. He knows I hate him. He knows I’m afraid of him.”

Iwaizumi sighs. “Oikawa, no one knows that you’re afraid of Kageyama. People think you don’t know what fear is.”

Oikawa glares at him. “They’re calling him a genius. My successor. Wouldn’t anyone be afraid of being surpassed?”

“Oikawa, the boy looks up to you!” Iwaizumi replies, a little angrily. “This battle is not about you. It’s about getting the princess back, and you’re the only one who can defeat Ushijima. I don’t care what you have to say about Kageyama, but right now, right here, he can’t do what you can. So you need to be protected until you can get to Ushijima. If we lose you before they lose him, we’re finished.”

“The gods will protect me. Didn’t Thetis promise that I would be unharmed?” Oikawa retorts stubbornly. “Are you telling me the gods lie, Iwaizumi?”

Iwaizumi sighs. Convincing Oikawa has always been difficult, and when his pride is concerned, nigh-impossible. “The gods change their minds, Oikawa. All I’m telling you is that Mizoguchi’s plan is for maximizing our chances of victory. But for it to work, you have to be there. Please, Oikawa.”

Oikawa looks down at the ground, still fuming. Iwaizumi’s words make sense. They always have. He is a soldier in the truest sense of the word, unflinching and unfailing in his dedication and discipline. He doesn’t have the raw talent Oikawa does, but he always knows exactly what he believes in and will do anything to protect and uphold those ideals. There is no question that Iwaizumi is one of their best soldiers.

But Iwaizumi doesn’t have a supernatural destiny weighing on his shoulders, a future portended by the Fates that has followed him since he was born. He doesn’t have prophecies written about him, hasn’t been singled out by the gods for greatness, hasn’t lived since birth with expectations and obligations, both godly and mortal, that slowly devour his humanity day by wretched day. Iwaizumi has always been a soldier fighting for his country and his country alone, in the belief of higher virtues, never for Fate, never for himself, or anyone else. Oikawa doesn’t have that luxury.

“I refuse.”

Iwaizumi gets up off the floor and slides his sword into its sheath, the blade flashing even under the low light of the lanterns. His face is stony, eyes unreadable. “I knew you were a selfish fucker, but I thought you would see reason this time. Don’t you see how much we need you?”

Oikawa turns to face him, voice laced with venom. “You would never understand.”

“I don’t see what there is to understand,” Iwaizumi spits in return, shaking with quiet fury. “All I see is Oikawa Tooru, son of Thetis and Peleus, the greatest soldier of the Greeks, and a fucking self-centered coward.”

“Get out of my tent. Now.” Oikawa hisses, drawing his sword and pointing it right at Iwaizumi’s throat. It glows dully under the light of the lanterns, flickering like the pulsing of a heart.

Iwaizumi turns and stalks out, without a single look back.

.

.

.

.

.

**ii;**

“I’m sorry, sir.” Iwaizumi kneels before Commander Mizoguchi, head bowed. “I was unable to convince Oikawa to rejoin the battle.”

“Rise, Iwaizumi.” Mizoguchi says calmly. “I cannot say that I did not expect to happen, although I hoped otherwise.”

Iwaizumi gets to his feet and meets Mizoguchi’s gaze, unflinching. “Please excuse my insolence, sir, but does Kageyama have to lead the vanguard?”

“I figured you would ask that,” Mizoguchi says, and gestures to the map on the table in front of him. “The Trojan archers are much stronger than ours. It is highly likely that almost everyone in our vanguard will fall by the time we reach the Trojan front lines and actually engage in battle. While both Kageyama and Oikawa have divine protection, Kageyama is not yet at the level where he can face Ushijima.”

“And the gods are too fickle to be trusted with Oikawa’s life,” Iwaizumi finishes, a resigned look on his face. The explanation he expected. He’s not sure what he was hoping for.

“I’m very sorry, Iwaizumi,” Commander Mizoguchi fixes him with his typical inscrutable stare, but Iwaizumi thinks there might be a little pity in it this time. “It looks like we’re going to have to go ahead with what we discussed earlier today.”

Iwaizumi’s hands begin to tremble, just barely, but he forces himself to stay calm. When he joined the military, he swore to fight for his country, no matter what it took away from him. And what he was being asked to do would be the most crucial thing he ever did. _There’s no backing out now, Hajime._ “I understand.”

“Then I will see you here at dawn tomorrow,” Mizoguchi replies. “Yahaba will have everything you require.”

Iwaizumi bows once and leaves the tent.

.

.

.

.

.

**iii;**

“Dude, what’s up with you?” Hanamaki looks at Iwaizumi, concerned. “You never drink. Or at least not even close to this much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Iwaizumi sighs. The world around him is slightly blurry, and the alcohol in his tankard sloshes noisily over the table and his hand as he slams it down. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Just wanted to have some fun before the battle tomorrow.”

Hanamaki catches Matsukawa’s eye behind Iwaizumi’s back, and gives him a questioning look. Matsukawa shrugs.

“I guess I can get behind that,” Matsukawa takes a gulp of his drink as well, but continues to watch Iwaizumi carefully. “We might be dead soon. Why not enjoy what we can while we’re still here?”

Iwaizumi mumbles something grumpily.

“Hm? What’d you say, Iwaizumi?” Hanamaki asks.

“I wanna punch him in the face!” Iwaizumi suddenly stands up, knocking his drink aside. “I just wanna punch Oikawa in his stupid face!”

The entire tent falls silent as everyone turns to stare at them. Iwaizumi’s tankard is on the floor, the rest of his drink slowly pooling on the ground. Iwaizumi is clearly drunk, splotches of red all across his face and he gazes off into nowhere, his face somehow both angry and resigned at the same time. He mouths something to himself. Matsukawa thinks it sounds something like _idiot._

“All right, let’s get you out of here,” Matsukawa whispers, gesturing to Hanamaki to help him. They grab both of Iwaizumi’s arms and drag him out of the tent, toward the living quarters. Surprisingly, Iwaizumi comes without a fight, limp as a rag doll.

“Do you know where Iwaizumi’s tent is?” Hanamaki asks Matsukawa once the three have reached the outskirts of the housing tents. The makeshift bar behind them has resumed its rowdy hustle and bustle, light spilling out from behind its flaps, but in front of them, night has fallen dark and heavy.

“Isn’t he staying with Oikawa?” Matsukawa replies. Everyone knew where Oikawa lived - and most people, too, were aware of who he spent most of his time with - his best friend, his partner.

Hanamaki grimaces. “That’s probably not the best idea right now.”

Matsukawa looks down at Iwaizumi, who now has his eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face. “No, I think it’s okay. He’s asleep.”

Hanamaki shrugs. “Fine. Let’s get him back to where he belongs.”

When they arrive at the tent, the lanterns are off inside. The two of them drag Iwaizumi in behind them. The moonlight casts a soft glow on the interior, and they can see Oikawa sleeping on the mat on the ground. There’s only one mat, but it’s big enough for two, and so Hanamaki and Matsukawa, with some effort, roll Iwaizumi onto the mat and put a blanket over him, before silently slipping out.

“They sleep on the same bed too?” Hanamaki asks as soon as they’re a good distance away.

“That’s what you noticed?” Matsukawa asks him incredulously, shaking his head. “Supplies are scarce. Of course we’re not the only ones sharing a mat.”

“Well, if you’re so perceptive, what did you notice?” Hanamaki challenges him in reply.

“Don’t you remember, Hanamaki?” Matsukawa looks ahead, eyebrows furrowed. “Oikawa never sleeps the night before a battle. He and Mizoguchi stay up talking tactics.”

Hanamaki shrugs. “Maybe he’s getting old or something. Turning human. Finally needs some sleep like the rest of us poor mortals.”

Matsukawa doesn’t laugh. He stops briefly, pensive look on his face. “Haven’t you heard about the rumor, though?”

“What rumor?”

Matsukawa takes a big breath and lets it out slowly. His voice still comes out trembling a little. “That Oikawa’s refusing to join the battle tomorrow.”

Hanamaki’s eyes widen in shock. “But - if Oikawa doesn’t come - we’re -“

“- fucking screwed,” Matsukawa keeps walking toward the tent they share, and keeps his face as still as possible, refusing to betray the storm of fear brewing inside of him. “Yeah. We are.”

.

.

.

.

.

**iv;**

Iwaizumi blinks blearily, forgetting at first where he is. He sits up and looks around. It’s his tent, but he doesn’t remember going to sleep the night before – the last thing he remembers is sitting in the alcohol tent, drinking with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, trying to forget that he has just been served his death sentence on a platter of fake glory and feigned honor.

He looks over next to him, and sees Oikawa sleeping peacefully. It’s a sight he’s seen many times before, as the early riser of the two, but on this morning, there’s something ethereally beautiful about him. His light-brown hair fans out, framing his face, which is glowing, even though the sun isn’t even up yet.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know why he acts on the impulse, today of all days. It’s not a foreign feeling, the attraction he feels toward his childhood friend, the desire to touch him, feel him. But Oikawa has had his share of women, spoils of war, and Iwaizumi has never breached the subject. With training, he learned discipline, and with discipline, he learned to temper his longings and pretend that he and Oikawa are comrades and friends, nothing more.

He thinks back to when they first met, when prophecies only existed within fairy tales and their lives were still their own, not the pawns of gods in some eternal game of domination. He remembers Oikawa’s eyes then, clear and pure as glass. Even as a child, Oikawa was a fighter, a warrior. But he fought because he loved it, the pounding of his feet against the ground, the feeling of the sword in his hand as it cut swiftly through the air. They swam in the mountain pools together, studying under Chiron not just the art of war, but also healing. (Oikawa’s tendency to overwork himself meant Iwaizumi had plenty of practice). Even though sometimes Oikawa did idiotic things and Iwaizumi had to come in and make sure he was okay, as long as Oikawa was content, Iwaizumi was also. And so the years passed, the two of them inseparable. Oikawa learned the art of war because he loved to fight; Iwaizumi followed behind because he thought he would only be able to protect Oikawa’s back if he fought too.

On Oikawa’s sixteenth birthday, Thetis had come and told him about the prophecy. After that day, Iwaizumi saw a darkness weighing in Oikawa’s eyes. They were cloudy, stormy as the sea that his mother came from. The smiles came less often, and they were forced and fake. When he fought, he raged, biting his own lips hard enough to draw blood. His practices took on an air of desperation, injuries coming more frequently and more severely. And eventually, Oikawa’s skills advanced to the point where Iwaizumi could no longer follow him. He could only watch over him from the sidelines and pray that Oikawa didn’t injure himself to the point where he could no longer heal him.

They never talked about the prophecy. Chiron refused to tell Iwaizumi no matter how many times he asked, saying that it was Oikawa’s right alone to share such a thing. And then one day messengers from Oikawa’s father arrived, along with Menelaus’ call to battle, to protect his honor, save his wife, and sack Troy, a beautiful city bursting with wealth, a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

Oikawa had joined them without a second glance and Iwaizumi had followed. And every day thereafter, the darkness that hung around Oikawa seemed to creep further and further inward. But Oikawa was half-divine, wrestling with the impulses and emotions inside him that were stronger than his human existence could handle. And this was the hurt that no medicine, no treatment Chiron had taught Iwaizumi could ever hope to heal. Iwaizumi was human, and Oikawa had been singled out by the gods to become something much greater than that. So when Oikawa finally snapped, told him that he could never understand, Iwaizumi realized that he had been wrong, that he would never – could never – be able to protect Oikawa. Because Oikawa’s life was in the hands of forces much greater than himself, something that Iwaizumi could never even hope to defeat. That the true enemy of Oikawa was not on the battlefield, but something much older and greater than either of them. The gods, and above them, Fate itself.

And so Iwaizumi had walked out of that tent, realized that the final way he could protect Oikawa was by defying Oikawa’s destiny, the prophecy that gnawed away at his humanity and heart more and more each day, by taking Oikawa’s place on the battlefield. By keeping Oikawa from the place where the gods and fate would use him for their own ends.

And so when Iwaizumi Hajime sees Oikawa’s face that morning, clear, calm, and peaceful like it has not been since the day Thetis came and placed on his shoulders the weight of his destiny, he thinks that the gods have seen it fit to give him one last blessing.

So it is without regret that he leans over and kisses the man he loves for the first and last time.

.

.

.

.

.

**v;**

“See, there he is!” Hanamaki gestures frantically toward the middle of the infantry group. “It’s Oikawa!”

Matsukawa narrows his eyes in the direction Hanamaki is pointing. There’s no mistaking Oikawa’s customary helm and armor, black as the death he brings.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe Hanamaki had been right; maybe Oikawa had finally needed sleep for once in his half-divine life. “Maybe we have a chance then.”

Matsukawa continues to watch as Yahaba runs up to Oikawa, carrying a sword. Oikawa grasps it in his hand, swings experimentally, and nods. Yahaba scurries off. The whole exchange has taken scarcely minutes, but Matsukawa’s nerves have returned. There’s something strange about what’s happened.

“Oi, Matsukawa. We’re heading out soon,” Hanamaki’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts. All around them is the familiar buzz that precludes battle, the air heavy and tense with adrenaline, made up of blustering boasts and whispered prayers.

As they begin to march forward, Matsukawa still can’t shake the strange feeling hanging over him. It is a combination of insecurity and foreboding, as if someone were creeping up behind him in absolute darkness, lying in wait for weakness. No, not behind him. Someone else. _Death_ , he thinks suddenly. _Death is coming for Oikawa._

.

.

.

.

.

**vi;**

Iwaizumi lets out a roar as he rushes into the battle, fighting his way closer and closer to the vanguard. He makes sure to stay close to Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Their presence during battle is familiar and brings him strength, maybe even comfort. They have not discovered him, he realizes, as shouts of “Oikawa!” leave their mouths as warnings and encouragements.

He can see the walls of Troy rising ahead of them, and raises his sword with another roar. Around him the soldiers follow him with shouts and cries of their own, surging forward like a wave, hacking and slashing at the Trojan infantrymen unfortunate enough to get in their way. Iwaizumi feels something like a rush of pride, quickly tempered by a voice in his head that whispers _imposter, pretender._ It sounds oddly like the murmuring of the sea, the sighing of the waves. _It is your son that put me here, is it not?_ he asks the voice. _I am doing what I am supposed to, am I not? What more do you want from me?_

It is like a dance, a waltz of blood and sweat and steel. Iwaizumi has grown up in a suit of armor, has lived half his life swinging a sword. Oikawa was always better, of course – he had a divine blessing, the talents of a god. If Iwaizumi’s fighting is a waltz, Oikawa’s movements are a ballet, a one-man performance of perfect, flawless death. He had no counterpart, no partner. Of course, Iwaizumi is not without talent, and what he has is enough to inspire bloodlust and fervor and incite confidence and rage among his fellow soldiers, which, for Mizoguchi, was enough to send him in Oikawa’s place.

Iwaizumi is not without talent, but he is not Oikawa. So when Ushijima rises up in front of the Gates of Troy, Iwaizumi says a prayer and swings, Ushijima parrying easily.

“You’re not him, are you?”

Iwaizumi answers with a snarl. He thinks Ushijima looks at him with something like pity in his eyes.

“I don’t like to kill needlessly, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not Oikawa. You don’t need to die.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t deign his words with an answer, continuing to slash and parry forward. Ushijima frowns once before his sword darts forward, impossibly fast, and suddenly a spot of red blooms on Iwaizumi’s armor.

Iwaizumi gasps as pain shoots up his sword arm, dropping his blade to the ground. He grunts, reclaiming it and swinging it upward in his left hand. Even before he looks up, he knows that he is done for. His left arm is much less powerful and much less deft than his right, and he had no chance with that arm to begin with.

“Oikawa!” he hears Matsukawa shout for the last time before Ushijima’s sword again snakes forward, this time catching him in the chest.

There is shouting, and there is blood, and then there is darkness, and mercifully, silence.

.

.

.

.

.

**vii;**

Oikawa looks up as Matsukawa and Hanamaki barrel through the opening of his tent, smelling of battle and blood.

“You bastard,” Hanamaki seethes, crossing the room toward him with angry strides and lifting him up into the air by the collar of his tunic. “You fucking bastard!”

Matsukawa makes no movement to stop him. Oikawa raises an eyebrow.

“Well, good evening to you as well, Hanamaki,” he forces out with mocking lightness. “Matsukawa, it’s so unlike you to condone this kind of violence.”

“Put him down,” Matsukawa says to Hanamaki, before looking Oikawa in the eyes. “I don’t condone it. I only agree that you deserve it.”

Hanamaki slowly releases Oikawa, clearly reluctant. The latter rubs at his throat. “I’m not sure I understand what I deserve this for,” he says, before trying to peer behind them. “Where’s Iwaizumi? Isn’t he usually with you two?”

Matsukawa’s eyes widen in surprise. He quickly exchanges an uneasy glance with Hanamaki, who simply continues to glare.

“What? What are you so shocked about?” Oikawa questions, suddenly uneasy. Hanamaki and Matsukawa stare at him as a heavy silence descends, and a chill runs through Oikawa’s bones.

Matsukawa finally clears his throat. “I think he actually doesn’t know, Hanamaki.”

“I’m having trouble believing that,” Hanamaki quickly snaps in return, jaw set. “You saw what happened. There’s no way.”

“What are you talking about?” Oikawa almost shouts. He can feel his heartbeat speeding up, his entire body tensing. “What don’t I know?”

“Oikawa, Hanamaki, Matsukawa,” Mizoguchi’s voice makes all three warriors turn around. “Please allow me to explain.”

Hanamaki grumbles in reply.

“I will begin by saying that your anger is misplaced, Hanamaki,” Mizoguchi turns to the pale-haired soldier. “Oikawa had no knowledge of what transpired today.”

Hanamaki’s eyes widen as Matsukawa makes a “tch!” sound. “So who does?” he growls. “Who the hell decided to do it?”

“Only Yahaba, Irihata, and I were involved,” Mizoguchi replies, ignoring the obvious malice in Matsukawa’s tone. “Yahaba was necessary. As Oikawa’s armor-bearer, he would have discovered the truth anyway. Irihata was also necessary, in order to confirm that it was in accord with the gods’ wishes.”

“What truth?” Oikawa demands, fists shaking. It takes all his self-control to not slam everyone around him to the ground. “Why are you talking about Yahaba? I didn’t fight today! What reason would he have to do anything?”

Mizoguchi looks Oikawa straight in the eye. They are cold obsidian, and his voice is steel, sharp, surgical, and cold. “Oikawa, do you remember what I said to you when I visited you yesterday evening?”

Oikawa narrows his eyes. “You told me I would regret my decision. You said that I was throwing away much more than just a battle.” His eyes widen in shock as the gears in his head turn slowly, click into place.

Mizoguchi watches him carefully. “Hanamaki, Matsukawa, please leave the tent. I think Oikawa will prefer to hear this in private.”

As the tent’s flaps swish closed, Oikawa begins to pace.

“Are you sure you are ready to hear this?” Mizoguchi asks, the edge in his voice gone. Underneath, it is gentle, maybe even a little sad.

“What happened to him?” Oikawa comes to a halt, stares at Mizoguchi. “Tell me. Tell me everything. Now.”

“Iwaizumi Hajime is dead. He was killed in battle this afternoon by Ushijima Wakatoshi. His body was recovered by Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro. His plate and weapon were not found and are assumed taken as proof of death or spoils of war,” Mizoguchi states, his voice carefully void of emotion. He is used to this, knows how to talk to the family and friends of the deceased. The men who enter the battlefield do so with full knowledge that they may never exit, and behind each one of those men, there is a commander who sent them there. There is no place for sentimentality on a battlefield, and in the commander of an army, no place for humanity.

Oikawa slowly sinks to his knees as tears begin to stain the ground below him.

“I will leave you to your grieving,” Mizoguchi turns to exit.

“No,” Oikawa chokes out, clenching his teeth to keep from sobbing. “Tonight, we plan.”

Mizoguchi pauses and looks back at the young man on his knees, fists clenched, a sharp, bitter fury burning in his eyes. He has never seen Oikawa like this, has never seen Oikawa fight for any reason but the whims of the gods, for prophecy, fame, glory. He has never seen Oikawa burn this bright.

“And tomorrow, I kill him.”

.

.

.

.

.

**viii;**

“Why did you do it?” Oikawa snarls as he brings his sword up to meet Ushijima’s with a clang. “Why did you kill him?”

“Him?” Ushijima swings savagely to the left, and Oikawa jumps back to avoid the arc of his sword. “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid. Look around you, Oikawa. Look at how many of your comrades lay dead. Do you think I have time to keep track of them all?”

Oikawa stumbles backward in the mud, cursing. His face contorts in anger, eyes lighting in fury. “Iwaizumi. He was wearing my helm. My armor. Black as night, engraved with gold.”

Ushijima’s eyes flash as he continues to press Oikawa back toward the sea, strokes never faltering. “Oh, him?”

A crow caws somewhere behind them.

“You know, I told him that he could run. That he wasn’t the one I was looking for, and that I didn’t want to kill anyone needlessly. But he didn’t stop.” Ushijima’s lips curl up into a ghost of a smile. “If only you had been there, he wouldn’t have died. So aren’t you really the one who killed him?”

Oikawa sees red. His vision blurs and flashes, and the pounding of his blood and the ringing of swords and the roars of battle crescendos until he is lost in an envelope of sound and fury.

He barely registers the image of surprise on Ushijima’s face he rushes forward, hands and feet moving impossibly fast. He stabs and finds no resistance as his sword passes cleanly through the other man’s chest, cleaving through his armor as easily as if it were air. Oikawa feels a grim satisfaction as he watches Ushijima’s blood spatter the ground beneath his feet and his eyes drain of light.

Oikawa feels no regret when Ushijima lands on the ground with a thud. He looks pitifully small and weak in death, but as Oikawa gazes upon the body, the fire in his veins refuses to go out. It’s not enough. One life, even if it is Ushijima’s, is not enough punishment for the Trojans for taking Iwaizumi's life – for taking Iwaizumi away from him.

The Greek army looks on with awe as Oikawa spins across the battlefield in a radiant, beautiful performance of death and destruction. Despite the armor he carries, he moves with incredible quickness and finesse, sword and shield flashing in the dying light. The sunset behind them casts a reddish glow on him, and the color soaks onto his skin, makes him look like he has bathed in blood.

Death visited the earth that day in human form, in the form of a warrior cloaked in crimson, with icy bitterness as his shield and cold fury in his eyes. There is a legend somewhere that says that every human life is like a length of rope, and to live is to burn this rope down until the flame dies out. Those who shine brightly burn faster, and no one shone more brightly on that day than Oikawa Tooru, his thread rapidly shortening until with a final spark, he burned out. (Or so they say. No one can claim to have seen the moment of his death – or as others call it, his ascension).

When the dust has settled, there are bodies – so many bodies – piled high around the Gate of Troy. Out of the sea of red extends a single white flag of surrender, hanging limply. There is no breeze from the sea that night, or for many nights to come.

Oikawa Tooru is never seen again.

.

.

.

.

.

**epilogue;**

” _Hades, please. Just this one favor.”_

_“What is it, Oikawa?”_

_“Can you tell me where Iwaizumi Hajime is?”_

_A sigh. “Iwaizumi Hajime entered Elysium. He chose reincarnation. Beyond that, I do not know. The living are not my domain.”_

.

.

.

.

.

Iwaizumi Hajime is sitting on the front porch of his house, tossing a volleyball into the air.

He sees the door of the house next to him open. New neighbors just moved in, or so his mom told him earlier. “They have a child your age, Hajime!” she had said brightly. “A new friend, isn’t that great?”

A brown-haired boy steps through the door, and as the two of them make eye contact, Iwaizumi feels a sudden aching in his chest, a longing that he cannot quite place. He remembers something from a time long ago.

“Iwaizumi?”

The boy looks at him with something like relief in his tear-filled eyes, and Iwaizumi is surprised to find that he is crying too.

“Oikawa?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you —  
> to cb, who, despite her many talents, has never failed to reply or give support to little me, someone who is undeserving of her friendship, let alone her praise, or her thanks;  
> to k, who listens to my barely-incoherent midnight ramblings, who never fails to make me laugh, and who always tells me to hold my head a little higher;  
> to everyone in fss, who have helped me through rough patches more than they might think, and who have taught me not to take everything (or myself) too seriously;  
> and, of course, to all of you, who have read this, and anything else i've written.
> 
> ave atque vale.


End file.
